Question Reality
by eldritchMortician
Summary: With the Question gone, it's up to his partner, Foxglove, to unwind the mass of conspiracies he left behind, even when the League itself stands in her way. Q/OC, rated for later mayhem, and adult themes.
1. Chapter 1

* * *

_Hello all, after a long hiatus, I'm back! Hope you enjoy the story. But first a few warnings: This is a fic focused mainly on an OC (Introduced in my last fic I Come In Peace). Don't like it? Don't read it. But let me assure you I don't do Mary Sues, I like my characters well rounded, thanks. Also, for the Question fans, yes, this is upsetting..._

_All I can say is this: Trust me._

* * *

**Question Reality**

No one was quite prepared when the masked man fired his weapon. The mission had been almost laughable really. Some nut got his hands on a fancy weapon and his first thought was to rob a bank. In the middle of the day. While half the Justice League was meeting with the Mayor on the same block, and a couple others were patrolling their own leads. He'd made it out of the building, one had to give him that, but with four League members surrounding him, and Green Arrow announcing his presence on a nearby rooftop, arrow notched and ready, it really was time to drop the weapon and go quietly.

A split second after it discharged there was a green arrow through his hand, the man screaming, the gun clattering to the ground and disintegrating with a hiss. By then it was too late.

The Question was gone.

The blast enveloped him before he could move, or Foxglove could react. A spray of something warm and wet hit her costume, and her partner just . . . vanished.

She was the first to reach the gunman, hands grabbing at his clothing, mask inches from his. "Where? Where did he go?" She screamed in his face, grabbing the arrow still lodged in his hand and twisting, viciously, ripping a ragged cry from his throat. "Where?" Adrenaline had taken over, adrenaline and anger and something else she couldn't identify. All she could think of was that her partner was gone . . . somewhere . . . that they had to get him back quickly . . .

It was Superman who pried her off, gently, held her shoulders, looking down at her with sad, worried eyes. "Foxglove . . . " he began, quietly.

Behind her, Batman was on the man, angry as she'd ever seen him, and she tried to pull away from Superman, upset that he wasn't letting her help with the interrogation. She had to find out where her partner was. Batman turned toward them for a moment, his expression tight. "Get her to the Watchtower." He barked. There was no time to protest; Superman called for pickup and she found herself on the Satellite, being pulled gently along by the Man of Steel.

She couldn't break away, but struggled anyhow. She felt strange, something threatened on the edge of her mind she couldn't quite grasp and didn't want to, her knees felt weak. "What are you doing? We have to find out where that gun took Q . . . he could be hurt . . . "

Superman wouldn't stop looking at her with those weird, worried eyes. "Foxglove . . . Mariko . . . come on with me, please." He said, gently.

She could only frown, shake her head. "What do you . . . " She began, and froze when she saw her reflection in a reflective glass door, saw her white mask spattered with red, the haze in her mind clearing just enough, briefly, to remember the warm spray she'd felt. "No . . . "

Superman frowned, touching his earpiece. "J'Onn . . . you're needed." He said, and took Foxglove's elbow, gently trying to pull her away. "Come on, Fox."

His words were lost in the rush of blood in her ears. She took a slow, unsteady step forward, touching the glass door, leaving behind a trail of sticky red. "No . . . no . . . he was transported somewhere." She insisted, softly, her voice strange in her ears. "He . . . he's hurt we have to . . . Vic . . . "

When J'Onn phased through the floor, looking troubled, she grabbed at him. He had to understand. Superman didn't seem to be grasping things. "J'Onn . . . please . . . Vic, we have to find him . . . where they took him . . . "

J'Onn looked up at Superman, who shook his head, very slightly. The Martian frowned and put an arm around her shoulders. "Come, little one. Let us get you cleaned up and let Batman work on things below."

She went with him mainly because she lacked the strength to resist.

* * *

"How is she?" Asked Batman, quietly, glancing into the infirmary room that J'Onn had finally coaxed Foxglove into. They'd wiped the blood from her mask, but so far, she'd refused to take it off.

J'Onn frowned, deeply. "In shock. I do not think that she has . . . accepted what happened." He said, quietly. "There is . . . no possibility the Question was transported?"

Batman frowned. "I wish there were. Superman took a blast from that gun, it nearly knocked him unconscious. A human body would be obliterated."

J'Onn nodded, slowly. "I understand." He said, quietly, and frowned, turning to enter the room with Foxglove, trying to find the words to tell her that her partner . . . her lover . . . was dead.


	2. Chapter 2

_Welcome to Chapter 2, anyone who's reading this!! The first couple chapters here are a bit short, but they'll get longer, and the action picks up soon, so I hope you enjoy this story._

_I actually got a little emotional writing this chapter. :) Hope it shows. Please, please, R/R!! And as always, I own only my own character, and have nothing worth suing over!!_

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When they held the Memorial service, Foxglove had gone almost three days without food, sleep, or removing her mask. J'Onn was worried, sensing the tightly-controlled emotions just below the surface, threatening to break free at any moment. She'd so far played the part of stability, speaking to those who came to her, letting the Flash hug her, giving her opinions on plans for the service. The shakiness in her hands and voice was more evident as time went on, and any attempt to speak beyond a fairly superficial level was met with a gentle, but final, change of subject.

There was to be no casket, no tombstone. Foxglove had vetoed the idea, knowing that the Question would have hated the idea of burying an empty coffin, leaving an empty grave. He'd have hated the permanence of such symbols overlying nothing. She knew him best, so in the end there was only the memorial service on the Watchtower.

Nearly everyone came, filling the great conference room, some having to stand in the back. Even those who hadn't known him were there. The League pulled together for one of its own. Even Huntress, despite their messy falling out, sat quietly in the back, her hand wrapped around a tissue. The only one missing was Batman. She knew he was working. He was always working. A little part of her was angry at him, but it was like being angry at the wind for blowing. He was who he was; he was working when they held Superman's memorial, after all, why should this be different?

J'Onn stayed beside her, his hand on hers, being a support as she sat, silently, while Superman, Green Arrow, and even Wonder Woman, dressed in white and gold, stood and spoke, their words lost to her. She heard sighs, murmurs, even a little ripple of laughter about something Ollie said. She merely watched their movements, not quite seeing them, not quite hearing what they said, watched the lenses of her mask analyze her surroundings without really grasping the displays. There was a pause; she'd asked to be able to speak, and she reasoned it was the time for it. She stood, J'Onn at her side, taking her shoulder, gently.

"Mariko . . . you don't have to . . . " He said, softly.

She took a breath, shaking her head, forcing her voice steady. "He would. For me."

She was grateful he accompanied her, and stood by her. His presence was comforting as she paused, trying to hold her thoughts long enough to speak them. Looking at the sea of faces, of sympathetic eyes was impossible. It took a long moment, focused on the podium before her, to find her voice. She took a long, slow breath. "I could tell you . . . any number of things about the kind of man my partner . . . was." She said, quietly. "But in the end, I'd only be using many words for what a few would say. I loved him." Her voice cracked, and she swallowed. "I love him." She whispered, grasping the podium hard, her hands trembling. "He . . . told me a story once. Of a man who . . . dreamed he was a butterfly. When he awoke he wasn't certain if he was a man dreaming he was a butterfly . . . or a butterfly dreaming he was a man." She swallowed. "I hope . . . one day . . . he'll answer the question for me." She turned, and let J'Onn take her back to her seat.

The rest passed in a blur. People spoke to her, touched her arm, her hand. A few embraced her, Diana even kissed the forehead of her mask. Dozens told her that if she needed anything she had only to ask. It was intolerable until she managed to excuse herself, escaping into the empty Watchtower hallways.

She hadn't thought about what she was going to do. She went back to her room, changed out of her costume, took off the mask, packing it under her clothes in a large duffel bag. Going into Vic's room was the hardest part. She tried not to think as she downloaded the last thing he'd been working on, a massive file from the looks of it, and took the papers on his desk, his notes. She even opened his locked filing cabinet. The one he'd only recently trusted her with the combination to. She wasn't even certain why she was taking his work. It just . . . seemed important. The last thing she took was a hat–a fedora, brown, unexposed as of yet to the spray that changed the color of his clothing and hair, and affixed his mask. She held it in her hands a long moment, and put it on, pulled it low as she left the room with a lingering look back that made her chest tighten painfully.

She turned out the light.


	3. Chapter 3

_Welcome all, to chapter 3! This is a bit of a long one, as there was no real place to break it up properly. I do hope whoever's reading is enjoying this story._

_A quick note on another favourite character I've used here: Richard Dragon. Richard trains people, is a fighter, one of Batman's trainers, and is in general a badass. He also appears to be exactly what his students need. For example, in the Question series, he was a mystery badass in a wheelchair (until he didn't need to be in the chair anymore). But in Huntress: Cry for Blood, he was far more mild, humorous and gentle. I think this was because that was what was needed to reach his students. As such, he is what his student needs, and I have characterized him as such. (And for those of you who like to play Name That Reference, yes I've continued my Kill Bill/Pai Mei references in this story too.)  
_

_At any rate, enough of my rambling and on with the story! As always, I own no one but Foxglove/Mariko, and suing me would be a waste of time, I'm broke!_

* * *

Richard Dragon wasn't surprised to see the car winding its way up the treacherous road to his cabin. His previous visitor had shared some deeply saddening news, and suggested that he be ready for what was likely to be coming. He watched from the porch as the GTO parked and his student got out. She looked bad; her hair ragged, eyes lined, bloodshot. She'd lost weight and looked pale.

Mariko stopped at the railing, looking up at him, her eyes lost. "Hey, Sensei." She said, softly.

"Hey, kiddo." He didn't ask how she was. It would have been obvious, even if Bruce hadn't told him.

She dropped her eyes, swallowed. "Sensei . . . can I . . . "

"Of course you can stay. Long as you need." He said it quietly. He'd lost a friend and student–one of his best. And his student had lost the man she loved. Even without Bruce telling him, he'd have expected her to come.

She swallowed, her body language tense, full of pain, pent up and barely controlled, her hands shaking even though they were white-knuckled on her arms. That she'd driven without incident was nothing short of miraculous. "Thank you." She looked up again, trembling. "Vic . . . " In the next moment she was in his arms, shaking with sobs, barely able to keep her knees from buckling as he led her inside, guided her to a soft chair by the fire. He held her to him, letting her cry, and hating that he couldn't tell her it was a bad dream.

He did all he could, settling her with a mug of tea to hold to keep her hands occupied, and got her things from the car; a duffel bag, a large briefcase hastily stuffed with papers and what appeared to be flash drives. There was nothing else but a water bottle, not even a Starbucks cup. She'd looked thinner and he was willing to bet it hadn't even occurred to her to eat since Vic . . .

"God dammit, Vic." He whispered, leaning his back against the car, closing his eyes. Typical that he'd leave a big damn mess in his wake. If he were to by some miracle come back to life, Richard was fairly certain he'd punch him in the head just after he hugged him. Mariko was a mess, and he wasn't at all sure there was much to do to help her, but he'd try.

He put her things in the spare bedroom, came quietly back out. Her hair was in her face, she was staring into the teacup and taking slow, mechanical sips occasionally, when she remembered. He let her be and started some dinner, rice, herbs, vegetables, the smoked salmon that she liked. She came to the table when he asked, but didn't seem inclined to eat. He sighed, putting down his fork, finally unable to keep quiet.

"Kiddo . . . Mariko. You really need to eat. You've dropped weight, you're going to get sick. Vic wouldn't have wanted . . . "

"I've considered a hell of a lot of what Vic would want." She said, suddenly, looking up with an intensity that surprised him. "I came here, didn't I?" She looked down again, put her head in her hands. "I couldn't stay up there." She said, softly. "Everyone looking at me. They mean well but I couldn't let them look at me with those eyes . . . pity and sad and . . . " She trailed off, swallowing slowly. "I knew you weren't going to look at me like that, not with those eyes." She sobbed, rubbed her eyes irritably, hands shaking.

If she didn't rest soon, she was going to get worse. Bruce had been right; she wasn't stable. They'd let her go after the Memorial service because Batman had guessed where she'd head, but if things went the way they seemed likely to . . . well, apparently the Martian, J'Onn, wasn't pleased already, and had only agreed to leaving her to her own devices with the stipulation that she'd be brought back if the situation degenerated. Frankly, Richard wondered if he ought to call Bruce to pick her up right then.

It took the better part of an hour to coax a few bites into her, and nothing would convince her to talk about Vic, or to lie down and rest. She was still up when he went to bed, still sitting by the fire, arms wrapped around herself, lost in her thoughts.

The next morning Richard rose at five, exited his bedroom, and blinked.

The table was covered in papers, and there were a few tacked on the walls, and in piles in chairs. It looked like Mariko's briefcase had exploded. A laptop hummed near her elbow, small flash drives strewn across the table's surface. She obviously had worked all night.

Mariko herself was at the table, pale, dark circles under her eyes, fingers laced, staring at a paper in front of her, her face very . . . very . . . calm. She looked up, focused on him, slowly.

"They targeted him." She said, quietly. "The bank was a ruse. They wanted to kill Vic. That was the point."

He wasn't sure at all what to say to this, and approached slowly, frowning. The sheet in front of her was a diagram, presumably of the outside of the bank, the surrounding area where the . . . incident . . . had occurred. It was marked with colored dots, notes, arrows. Her finger traced over the paper as she spoke, her voice a disturbing monotone.

"There was no logical reason for him to turn our way." She said, quietly. "We were in the opposite direction he needed to go to get to his car. He already knew Superman would be knocked out by his gun, that would have been the obvious direction to go in. If he'd done even a cursory check he'd have known the alley was the only recourse in our direction, and that it was blocked. Even if he were going to the alley, I would have been the one in the way." She pointed out the dots, the notes, and swallowed. "Someone wanted the Question gone."

Richard sat down, slowly in one of the chairs that wasn't covered in notes. From the diagram it certainly made sense, still . . . "Well, maybe, kiddo, but in the middle of a fight things can start getting crazy . . . "

She shook her head, impatiently. "He wasn't panicked. He knew that Green Arrow had him in his sights. He had one shot and one shot only, and he turned all the way around to take it. Then he didn't even try to run." She looked up. "Someone hired him. Not for the bank job, that was just the bait. Someone also paid him enough, or had enough blackmail material on him that he would kill a member of the League despite the consequences."

"Okay . . . let's say you're right." He said, looking at her notes with a frown. "Why Vic?"

Mariko frowned, pulling some notes to her. "That . . . is the question."

She barely moved from her seat all day, and that mainly to reference the notes she had on the wall. Richard went about his usual routine, and brought her food she picked at. The piles of paper grew, notes more detailed, her handwriting more of a scrawl. When she asked him to relay some findings to Batman, he did it, and had a long conversation with the man.

Of course Bruce had picked up on some inconsistencies. Particularly after their gunman was shivved with professional precision the second he reached general pop in jail. Something was surely amiss, but the puzzle was a bizarre one. It was something he would have set the Question on. He promised to look into it, and they spoke awhile longer about their secondary problem in the next room.

Mariko was starting another pot of coffee when he came into the room, and sat down at the table, watching her, gravely.

"Have a seat, kiddo. We have to talk." There was far more firmness in his voice than usual, which did get her attention, causing her to frown and take a seat. "I've spoken to Batman. He's noticed some of the same things you have. And the gunman is dead, knifed ten minutes after he wandered out of the guard's sight."

She looked up, sharply, eyes narrowing. "If he left the guard's sight at all. Convenient." She said, and hissed through her teeth, angrily. "Have to start somewhere else then. Follow the money most likely . . . " She muttered, beginning to drift off him again.

"Mariko." He let the hardness creep into his voice again and she looked up. "I know you're planning on seeing this through to the end." He said, calmly. "You intend to follow the trail up the chain until you find out what happened, why, and who ordered it, correct?"

She leaned back in her chair, her bloodshot eyes narrowing slightly. "Yes."

He nodded a little. "And when you find out?"

There was a long silence. "I . . . don't know."

"Glad you're being honest." He said. "Batman is concerned, and I'm inclined to agree with him. No problem with you working on this, he wouldn't take that from you. However." He folded his hands on the table, regarding her, seriously. "If you cross the line and kill someone, he's not going to let it go. He will take you down. However he has to."

Her expression was blank, her voice devoid of emotion. "I am aware of that."

He nodded, gravely. "Which brings me to my second concern. You won't last five minutes if you don't rest and eat. You're going to rest, and eat, and you're going to do it tonight, and continue in that tradition until and after you leave here."

This time she frowned, irritable. "Richard, I need to work on this, and I'm not hungry."

"You seem to have mistaken that for a suggestion."

She frowned again, this time somewhat puzzled, her voice less sure. "You only ever make suggestions . . . "

He sighed. "You were a lot easier than Vic." He said, quietly. "All I ever had to do was suggest something and you were pretty amiable to it. Vic . . . at the beginning at times we had to explore consequences before he saw what was reasonable." Richard looked up at her, seriously. "You will eat. And you will rest tonight. A full night's sleep at least. If you continue to refuse, I will knock you out, possibly with a roundhouse to the head if need be. When you awaken the radius and ulna of your right arm will be broken near the wrist, necessitating a cast over your forearm and much of your hand for upwards of three months–I assure you the medical staff on the Watchtower will be instructed not fix it for you, though it will heal cleanly in its own time."

She stared at him a long moment, and for a second he thought she was far enough gone that she was going to try to fight him. "You'd do it, wouldn't you?"

He sighed. "Kiddo, I would. But only because I don't want something worse to happen to you."

"But . . . "

He held up a hand. "The discussion is at an end. Let's hear the decision."

She frowned, took a breath. "What's for dinner?" She said, finally, defeated.

He smiled a bit. "Good girl." He wondered if perhaps he ought to break her arm anyway. Even with rest . . . well, he'd made a promise and that was how it had to stand. He had to have some faith in his student, that she'd make it through without killing herself. Or others.

She was quiet the remainder of the afternoon, putting away her notes and the computer, dutifully eating what was given her, and drinking tea with him, quietly. Neither mentioned their earlier conversation. She didn't blame Richard, or Batman. They were concerned, and she knew it was rightly so. She hadn't slept because she worried about the dreams she was sure would come. Eating . . . she knew she should, but hadn't had anything nearing an appetite. Still, her head felt a little clearer after she had some food in her.

She went out at sunset to gather wood for the fire for Richard, and built a pile of it in his bonfire pit, where once upon a time they three–herself, Richard and Vic, had roasted fish, Richard leaving them eventually as they watched the embers burn down to darkness together. She pushed the memory out of her mind, kneeling and lighting the dry wood, watching the flames grow higher, feeling the heat radiating onto her skin. She sat there a long time, staring into the leaping flames, listening to the crackling wood. Finally, she reached for the bundle of black beside her. The costume was designed to be flame resistant, but in the midst of a bonfire it eventually lit, smoldered and burned. The long coat was next, silver buttons heating to glowing in the flames. Then the mask.

She watched, entranced as the lenses over the eyes cracked and burst, flames licking over the pointed ears, blackening the white fox face, making an eerie silhouette with sparking orange eyes.

"Sati was a Hindu practice." Richard sat beside her, handing her a cup of tea.

She took it, shrugging. "Sometimes the only answer is cleansing by fire." She replied, quietly. "I'm leaving in two days for Hub City. I want to visit Rodor. I promise I'll eat and sleep."

Richard nodded, looking over at her, the tired lines of her face, the pain. "See that you do." He said, quietly, and put an arm around her shoulders.

She leaned against him, gratefully. "I can't believe he's gone." She said, softly, swallowed. "I love him . . . God Richard I want him back . . . "

He squeezed her shoulder, gently. "I know, kiddo. I know."

She had no real idea what she talked about while the fire burned down to low embers. She was exhausted, rambling, tearful as she spoke to Richard. They shared stories, even laughed a little once or twice. In the end he had no resistance from her as she headed to bed, exhausted. He hoped sleep would improve things a little. If not . . . well, Batman had promised, as a favor to Richard, to keep an eye on her, but his usual duties wouldn't take a hiatus just because one of the League had been killed. He hoped she'd keep safe and wouldn't go too far, but it was entirely up in the air what she might do once she found out the answers to her questions about her partner's death. Revenge seemed likely. Hell, he was almost tempted himself. Who wouldn't be? Anyone would be sympathetic, but that wouldn't keep Batman from coming down on her immediately. And no matter how one looked at the possibilities, that wouldn't end happily.

All that could be done now . . . was wait_._


	4. Chapter 4

_Hello again and welcome! In this short chapter I introduce another character from the Question comics (seen also in 52), Aristotle Rodor, a.k.a. Tot. Poor Mariko's fraying around the edges, but at least she has some contacts. For now._

_As always, I love reviews very much :D and I of course own nothing and no one but Foxglove/Mariko, so please don't sue me, DC . . . but I'll come to work for you if you want!!_

* * *

She kept her promise to Richard as she set out for Hub City. She stopped and forced herself to have meals, and stay overnight at a hotel.

There was more than Rodor that she was after. Once she got information from Batman about their shooter, it turned out he was from Hub City, where the Question had started out. Far too much to be a coincidence, particularly given what he'd been working on prior to his death.

The city had improved, but continued to brim with corruption just under the surface. Perhaps the Question was sentimental at times, but he returned fairly often to the web of intrigue there. However, from his recent workings, it looked as though something else entirely was amiss. There were copious notes and reports on a pharmaceuticals company who'd recently begun work in Hub City. It was unfortunate most of his connections remained mental; there wasn't much to go on but apparently unconnected documents. She had to find what made them a whole, and find out what it was that the Question had been close to that got him killed. There was no way the events were unrelated, she expected to find more connections when she checked out the gunman's home and worked up a background check. But for the moment, she was heading to the home of Aristotle Rodor, Vic's friend and the one who'd created his mask and the color changing clothing, and had made the GTO into the monster of a machine it was. She'd never met the man, but Vic had gone to visit him occasionally, and she imagined he'd mentioned her while there.

The house was on the outskirts of the city, well-maintained, and fairly large. She parked, walked up to the porch and rang the doorbell, trying to decide what to say. He'd been informed of course, Batman had seen to that. Having her show up on his doorstep may or may not be welcome.

The man who answered was probably older than he looked, his beard and mustache and ponytail gray, his eyes blue and sharp. He cocked his head, taking her in, eyes flicking to the car and back to her. "Foxglove, isn't it?" He said, before she could speak.

She blinked, and gave him a wan smile. "Used to be." She said, quietly. "You're Mr. Rodor, right? You . . . can call me Mariko."

The man smiled a bit, gently, moving aside to usher her in. "And you can call me Tot. Come on in, hon, there's coffee."

She followed him in, quietly, accepting a steaming cup and a cookie from the man, who sat across the table from her. She took off Vic's fedora, laying it aside.

He sighed a bit. "I . . . was sad to hear about Charlie." He said, quietly. Vic had informed her of Rodor's habit of refusing to call him by his preferred name, and she couldn't help but smile a little. "He was a good man. Stood up for what he believed and did something about it." He looked up after a moment. "And he loved you very much." He finished, quietly.

She swallowed, looking down. "The feeling was . . . is mutual." She said, softly. He squeezed her hand, lightly, and she gripped his, thankful.

He sipped his drink, slowly, looking at her for a long moment. "You're investigating what happened, aren't you?" It was more a statement than a real question, and she looked up, nodding slightly.

"It wasn't a random act." She said, simply. "He was targeted, then the gunman eliminated. I think it's too much of a coincidence that the gunman hales from Hub City, which Vic had under investigation at the time."

He nodded a bit. "Charlie didn't quite believe in coincidences. Not coincidences that big." He said, sipping his coffee thoughtfully. "You're more than welcome to stay here for however long you have to. And if there's anything I can do to help, just ask."

She put down her cup, looked up at him. "There is something." She said, quietly. She'd come to a decision some nights ago. The one that prompted her to abandon her costume to the flames. "I need a mask. And clothes." She said, quietly. "Already have the hat."

He frowned a little. "You're saying you want . . . "

She shook her head. "I'm saying I need a costume and mask." She said, quietly. "Foxglove can't find out what happened to Vic. The Question might be able to."

He looked at her a long moment, and she worried he'd refuse, think her insane. But he nodded. "Let's get your sizes, then."


	5. Chapter 5

_Well it's been quite a while, whoops. Hope this new chapter is enjoyed. Please R/R!!!_

* * *

The Question's first stop was the abode of the late Jerry Stephenson, better known as the trigger man who'd shot her partner. He hadn't been dead long enough for anyone to start going through his place, and when she picked the lock she found it just as he'd left it. She closed the door behind her, and flicked on a small hand flashlight, rather than turn on the overhead and risk discovery. The place was a mess, the typical bachelor pad, pizza boxes stacked in one corner, dirty dishes. The furnishings were simple and cheap, the place was a one-bedroom in a seedier section of town. It had all the earmarks of someone just scraping by, so why, oh why did he have a large, flat-panel television? She frowned. Living beyond his means? The entertainment center was new, it seemed. There was little dust on the TV, stereo, and new gaming consoles compared to the surrounding area. He could perhaps have bought them on credit, but mentally adding up the value, she doubted it. Mr. Stephenson had recently come into rather a lot of money to be able to afford such nice new toys. Interesting.

She paged through his caller ID next. Several calls from a blocked number. She'd have to see about getting his phone records . . . Oracle might be able to help. Out of curiosity she picked up the phone, listening to the series of beeps that signaled messages. Wondering if he were the type of idiot who left his pin number for his phonemail written somewhere accessible, she paged through his address book. She smirked. "Phonemail–555-2145 (34-DD)." She rolled her eyes at his passcode and not for the first time couldn't feel at all bad he was dead.

She dialed the number and entered the code, waiting. "Hey, Jerry, it's Paul!" The man sounded drunk. "I heard you got a line on some big job, dude. Any room for more help? Call me!" The message was dated two days before the Question was killed. She wrote down the name and number on the caller ID–Paul Mason would be receiving a visit once she tracked down his whereabouts. The rest of the calls were disappointing, mostly telemarketing. She hung up the phone and pocketed Jerry's address book. If he was stupid enough to write down his phonemail passcode, he was probably dumb enough to have his 'business' contacts written down.

Another check around the apartment found some crumpled receipts on his dresser. He'd paid cash for his television and toys, probably having received payment that way. Very professional, and unfortunately impossible to trace. She tried the area around his desk next, finally coming up with a paycheck stub that confirmed that he could not have afforded his toys on his salary. It also revealed that he was a 'Cleanup Technician' (a fancy title for Janitor) at Jupiter Coffee and Tea. The font was modern, sleek, probably a new outfit. She pocketed the slip, remembering that amongst Q's files there had been a menu from Jupiter. She'd thought nothing much of it at the time. Now . . .

The computer was useless; nothing but the sort of thing single men with poor taste downloaded, and she turned it off, half wanting to drop a magnet into its workings. The rest of the apartment revealed nothing more of interest, and she slipped out and down the back stairwell, pulling the blue fedora low over her blank face as she stepped out into the Hub City alley. A check of the address book revealed no location for Paul Mason; probably close enough a friend Jerry had no need for a street number. Well, she'd just have to find him.

The sun was dipping low on the horizon, but it was still early evening. Time enough for her purposes. She found a secluded pay phone and dialed Paul's number after keying in to disable caller ID. Happily he was home, and she adopted a bubbly chirp and asked him if he'd mind taking a short survey for the pizza place the boxes in Jerry's apartment had come from, in exchange for a free pizza coupon. He agreed readily and answered a few inane questions about his ordering habits and topping preferences.

"All right, that's great. Thanks so much, sir. Now . . . to what address should we send your coupons?" She asked, sweetly.

Two minutes later she was in the GTO heading toward 356 Bloch street, apartment B.

She figured Paul for a night person, so she parked in what appeared to be a secure lot, and walked several blocks, keeping to the shadows, to his building. The lights were on inside his first-floor apartment, and she took a walk around the building. While marginally nicer than his buddy's apartment complex, it was still in a seedy section of town, and adjoined a dark alley where one could probably find some undisturbed moments. She waited there, leaning against the brick, arms folded, until the light went out in the apartment, and keys could be heard jangling in a hand as someone opened and closed a door.

Paul was a decent looking guy, mid twenties it seemed, taller and broader than she was, but the element of surprise was in her favor. She lunged at him as he passed the alley, dragging him in and kicking him in the face, dazing him enough that he mostly quit resisting as she slammed his back against the wall.

"Hello, Paul. We're going to have a chat." She said.

The young man swallowed, trying to get his bearings, and focused on her, eyes widening. "Y-you don't have no face . . . "

She inclined her head. "Freak eyebrow waxing accident." He tried to bolt and she punched him hard, twice in the ribs. "Not until we're finished chatting." She chided.

"I-I don't know nothing!" He was scared, that was good. And he was starting by screaming denials, a sure sign of a guilty conscience.

"That, I almost believe." She said, holding him by his jacket with one hand, the other at the ready to hit him again if he didn't keep still. "However, I would like you to regale me with the tale of our late friend Jerry Stephenson. He recently had some sort of large and lucrative job to do for someone that turned out to be his last. Who hired him?"

"I don't know nothing about a job!" He cried, immediately.

Deciding he needed some further motivation, she reached down with her free hand, got a grip on his little finger, and twisted savagely. The snap was quite satisfying, as was his ragged scream. "Let's try again. And don't think for a minute I'll ask nicely nine more times. There are much more interesting bones to break."

Paul whimpered, cradling his twisted finger, trying to shy away from her. "Y-you're crazy, you no-face bitch . . . "

She shrugged a bit. "That's been pointed out to me a time or two. Now, who hired him, or shall I break more digits?"

The guy cringed. "M-my supervisor did. He had him doing some under the table stuff, sometimes I'd go with him and we'd take stuff from labs."

She frowned under her mask. "Why would he hire a coffee bar janitor and . . . whatever you are to lift things from labs? What labs? And who's your supervisor, did you and Jerry work together?" The idea of a Jupiter Coffee and Tea manager sending his employees out to steal from labs was . . . bizarre at best.

Paul hesitated until she reached for his hand again, then flinched back. "N-no, no more!"

"You wouldn't last a minute under real torture, I'm guessing. Talk and we don't have to test that theory."

He whimpered a little, and started talking. "I-I work at Phoenix Labs, the pharmaceutical company. I just do stuff like monitoring temperatures, I swear, I don't mess with any of the chemistry."

"Thank heavens." She said, dryly. "How did your supervisor come to know Jerry?"

The young man swallowed. "W-well. They had a grand kickoff party for the Labs when they opened. Jerry and lots of his buddies from work were there, and the higher-ups for Jupiter, I dunno why, friends of the scientists I guess, or they catered, I forget. So me and Jerry were hanging out and hitting on some chicks, having a beer, and started talking to the manager of my lab . . . and you know, we were drinking and Jerry starts bragging about a bunch of B&E's he got away with, and Mr. Riley said he might have use of that kind of talent if we were careful . . . "

Mariko narrowed her eyes behind her mask. "Where did you steal from? And what?"

Paul had apparently decided it was in his best interests to answer her promptly. "O-other pharm labs mainly. I . . . think it was some kind of industrial espionage thing, they wanted to complete something before the other guys I guess. No one got hurt, so no problems . . . "

Her grip tightened on his jacket, and she thought about hitting him again, but restrained herself. "You took completed drugs?"

He shook his head. "No . . . mainly chemicals they had stored. I don't know what they were, they'd give us some sort of big long number and tell us to find the stuff that matched, and we did. That's all I know, I swear to god. It was just for the money . . . "

She cocked her head slightly. "What's your manager's name?"

"W-Wallace Riley. He's not a doctor, I think he's more of a businessman."

"I'll just bet." She growled, releasing his jacket and stepping back. "Do yourself a favor, Paul. Vanish. Get on a bus and go anywhere. And in case you're thinking of running off and letting Mr. Riley know about my questions . . . "

"N-no, I swear! I'd get fired!" He said, desperately backing away and running into a garbage can.

"If things are as deep as I think, you're likely to get two in the head and dumped in the river. 'Fired' will be the least of your problems. But that's nothing compared to if I see you again." She turned away, heading down the alley. "Goodbye, Paul. Pack only what you need." Behind her, she heard him scramble for his keys, and back to his apartment.


End file.
